


Singing Seasons

by MadManta



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beefy Bucky Barnes, Blow Jobs, Centaurs, Fauns & Satyrs, Frottage, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Not Polyamory Necessarily, Pining But With Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Satyrs Just Fuck Everyone In The Troupe Ok, big weird monster cocks I'm sorry?, monster fucking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22273891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadManta/pseuds/MadManta
Summary: It's that greek scene from Fantasia, only, there's fucking. 🤷♀️This was entirely inspired by JessRoseDraws and her art of Steve and Bucky as a satyr and a centaur. I felt a mighty need for sleeze. There'll be a few parts to this, for fun.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	1. Solstice

It is Midsummer, and the boisterous evening is lit by an engorged full moon and the reflective highlights of bonfires splashing off of tall trees with long overhanging leaves and vines of flowers. It is hot, balmy even, made worse by the celebratory fires surrounded by a throng of men and creatures. Many of them hold cups splashing with a salty, puckering wine that stains the tender flesh of lips and cheeks. There’s hooting and hollering that curl up in small groups with a persistent, rhythmic drumming, the tinkling of a lone flute player across the meadow, and a closer lyre strumming under the hum of pleasantly deep-voiced poetry. Every body and form is twisting into jovial dances with drink, including a slight, faun-haired satyr, but to tell the truth: he is _exhausted_.

The partying had started at dawn, at least in this part of the woods. His troupe of 8 other satyrs had felt a very strong desire to celebrate Dionysus — more than the usual for a satyr, anyway — and it had led towards a lot of parading around to convince the locals to turn this into a _proper festival_. Being a particularly magical time of year, it was easy to rustle up nymphs and humans alike, and neighboring satyr groups, and even a few centaurs sniffed out a desire to worship. And thank the gods, too, as he remembers the enormous barrels of wine they had brought with them, crusted over with sea salt. Now, though, after the party had climaxed in a somewhat underwhelming display of mid-afternoon rutting, it had slowly built back up until music had gotten everyone up from malaise and the wine began flowing more liberally. He hadn’t partaken in the earlier activities because he knew his limits, and he knows that _now_, in the hot dark, is when the evening would be most fun. It’s easy to be reverent to your favorite god when you’re in your element.

The satyr knows what he wants to properly worship: whoever is _singing_ with that _lyre_.

His elongated, softly furred ears twitch as he tries to focus on it over the thrumming of drums and voices calling out. He sees a particularly cozy looking space under an enormous willow tree, its leaves blue in the night and almost brushing the ground. He can see the leaves parted open like a fantastical curtain, each side tied by more flower vines. Inside, there are at least three figures, one certainly a silhouette of a centaur reclining on the ground. He trots closer, cloven hoofed feet particularly quiet with his own prim movement. As he approaches, it’s easier to see there is a small space in front of the tree trunk with a soft unrolled carpet and a bronze lantern causing the few within to glow golden.

There is a couple — whether they are human or nymph, he can’t tell — lightly petting each other while the large centaur is rested against the trunk, holding the lyre, softly singing.

He’s muscular in a way that’s more usual with the type of centaur to train a Hero or a demigod, not praise Dionysus with wine and women, though one of his arms looks particularly golden in the light of the lantern. His eyes meet the satyr’s, and they look golden too. The final lyric of his song stretches into a lazy smile, and he inclines his head with long, brunette hair to the side. “Join us, friend Satyr.”

“Steve,” the satyr blurts out, his mind feeling suddenly stuffed up with lamb’s ear. He gives an embarrassed grin as he steps in, past the couple, to kneel and then sit near the musician. His blonde tail flicks out beside his legs and then calms. “My name’s Steve.”

“Well met, Steve,” croons the other. “This evening, you can call me Bucky.”

Steve blushes and absolutely cannot do anything about it, knowing it’s making the freckles across the bridge of his nose color him like a deer’s rump. “I needed to escape from all,” he waves a thin wristed hand, “_that_. You have a beautiful voice, Bucky.”

It is harder for Steve to tell if that caused the centaur to blush, but he is certain it is possible with the way his head tips away and his waves of dark hair fall over his face. There is no response, other than a clearing of his throat and the start of a new song.

There is a chance that Steve is drunk on mountain centaur wine, or maybe the dried herb bushes they had thrown onto the fires were filling his head with a heady smoke, but he is sure that this is the most divine singing he has heard in his life.

He watches Bucky sing and finally focuses in on that arm. It’s not flesh, or at least not any that Steve has seen before. It is a similar shape to the absurdly broad musculature of his flesh arm, only made of shifting silver plates that seem to have a soft red glow behind each line. There is no way that this centaur has not graced the presence of Hephaestus. But what if he hadn’t? Steve has a _lot_ of questions, but the first and foremost is: where did he learn to sing and play like this? His long, thick fingers pluck the lyre intimately but swiftly, and the baritone of his voice is hypnotic. That “head full of soft foliage” feeling doesn’t go away. In fact, it’s growing, to where his whole body feels like he’s being submerged in warm golden olive oil, suspended, calm, pleased.

That’s all he remembers before he wakes with a start. There’s a bit more chill to the air and the lantern has burned low. The other couple is long gone, and panicked, Steve sits up on his elbows. The centaur is thankfully still there, though he has a perplexed look on his face.

“Did I—um, fall asleep?” Steve asks and rubs a hand at an eye.

“I knew the poetry was boring, but to knock you out?” Bucky tuts, his expression morphing into chiding amusement.

Steve chokes on his spit he’s so eager to contradict him, lurching to his knees. He coughs, that blush coming back with fierce embarrassment. “You know that’s not true!” he gasps, indignantly. “You put me under a spell!”

Bucky raises one heavy eyebrow and Steve feels a coil of interest twist in his haunches. “What makes you think I can do that?” His tone of voice makes it seem like Steve’s claim is preposterous, but oh, Steve _knows_. He _knows_ this centaur is tricky, and if he is anywhere as tricky as Steve is stubborn, then Steve is even _more_ sure.

“No bard has ever made me feel like I’ve dunked my head in a pond of wine on their own,” Steve says.

“No, but maybe the wine we brought in could,” Bucky points out.

“I had hardly a cup or two!” Steve sidles up closer to Bucky and he can feel heat radiating off of his enormous body. In the chill of night, it’s very welcome. “But look at you! You’re the most magical thing at this suare.”

“_Flatterer_,” Buck says, pursing his lips, and Steve is wholly not in control of his body when a hand reaches out to slap at Buck’s human hip, though it’s much closer to that horse shoulder, and Steve can feel that soft tan fur, similar to what’s going up and down his own legs, only shorter, more like velvet—

“Oh! I’m sorry,” Steve says, and now that coiling feeling has turned to a fire in its own right. He jerks his hand away, but it’d be impossible not to see the arousal the touching had caused. Steve is on a hair trigger, after all; he’d chosen to skip the afternoon orgy hoping for a proper moonlight romp. But now he’s here, alone with a _centaur_ of all people, and there’s not much good that could come of this. He shouldn’t have fallen asleep! He’s sure that couple of _whatever_ they were would have enjoyed his presence, and now he’s humiliated himself in front of what is _clearly_ the most fantastical and god-touched centaur from the group of debauched centaurs that brought in whatever that _demon_ wine was and—

Bucky’s large hand comes out to settle on Steve’s smooth hip, yanking him closer, and the spiral of thoughts in Steve’s mind drop into the abyss of his thoughts. His cock twitches visibly as it fills, growing larger and larger, just a step below absurd from where it had been hanging tidily before. The tender pink head peeks out from the foreskin.

Bucky’s grin is toothsome to the point of Steve wondering if he has fangs, and his heart tumbles over itself in his chest at the thought. “Oh, you, uh,” Steve mumbles, messing up the flaxen hair on his head as he drags a hand through it. Bucky’s fingers tighten on him and Steve’s arms break out in goosebumps as he’s pulled right up to Bucky’s front. Steve is on his knees, and quite smaller than the other, so his cock rubs on the fur of the centaur’s lower chest, where Buck’s more human like hips end.

“You are _most unusual_ for a satyr,” Bucky hums thoughtfully. His forehead touches Steve’s, their faces close. “You were tired of celebrating, which is _unheard of_, by the way,” and continues talking before Steve can defend himself, “and you succumbed almost instantly to my hymns. Usually it’s too boring for your kind for it to work properly.”

“Oh. Uh-huh?” Steve’s trying to really take part in this conversation, but on the other hand he’s also shamelessly rubbing himself on Bucky while he talks, and the musician seems perfectly happy with that arrangement. His hands slide around behind Steve’s slim body, each hand carefully cupping a globe of his ass.

“Though you do seem easily distracted, which is pretty normal for a satyr,” Bucky is saying. Steve does not care one bit about _whatever_ was coming out of his mouth, because he realizes he now had free reign to _touch_ this man, this demigod, this legend-who-he’d-never-heard-of. His right hand shoots out to slide up and back down the metal arm. It is warm, just as warm as the flesh arm which gets equal attention from Steve’s left hand before they move inwards to Bucky’s chest, which he squeezes like he might do to a proper nymph’s.

“I think you might be getting confused,” Bucky chuckles, but when clever fingers pinch his nipples the laugh melts into a groan. His dark tail, much larger and more graceful than Steve’s, suddenly flips with impatience, and Steve can see him readjusting his back legs. Steve’s smile turns positively impish.

“Confused about what?” he asks, his own voice deep despite his small stature. He knows how to properly weave a seductive tale. “I mean, there’s definitely a chance I’m imagining this. The fact that _you_ would have a passing interest in _me_,” he chuffs as he squeezes Bucky’s pecs again. He can feel wetness beading up at the tip of his own cock, each rub pulling his foreskin back and forth. Bucky’s face is close, so it’s easy to properly make eye contact, and now he can see that his eyes are not gold, but pale blue. His face is clean shaven, like Steve’s, which is unusual for both of them, and Steve instantly takes a liking to it. They’re both _different_.

“I’m just a boring old poet,” Bucky insists, though his voice is gravelly and his pupils are wide. It looks like he’s eating up Steve’s attention the way Steve had soaked up his music earlier. They’re high on each other, hot nervous breaths filling up the space between them.

“Poet yes,” the satyr hums. He brings up both hands to slide into Bucky’s hair at his neck, and the sensation is equally pleasing to the two of them. “But look at you, you’re certainly a warrior, divine, even. Still,” Steve chuffs again, leaning in close enough that his lips faintly brush Bucky’s. “You seem quite taken with me, which is _certainly_ my imagination.”

The noise that bubbles out of Bucky causes a very high, excited sigh to slip out of Steve’s mouth. Bucky is the first to press their mouths together, and their sounds grow wetter as their lips part and tongues slide.

Steve shudders, jerking his hips backwards, which Bucky then yanks close again. “I’m going to…” Steve is panting, the embarrassment of his blush causing his whole chest to pink up under the tufts of fur at his shoulders and collar. “It’s been all day and, and you, umm...”

“Is it true, about satyrs?” Bucky asks casually, right hand coming down to wrap tightly around Steve’s large cock. Steve doesn’t get a chance to answer, the touch causing his hoofs to dig in to the ground as he spurts his release onto Bucky’s hand and chest. Bucky’s hand continues stroking him, tightening further, as Steve’s cock stays hard and red, twitching with the aftershocks. “Ahh, must be.”

“Three,” Steve pants, though his hips are still jerkily moving with Bucky’s hand. “Hafta… three times and then. Then I’m ok.”

“Have to, huh?” Bucky teases, though he’s clearly interested in exploring more of what the satyr’s offering. “What happens otherwise? Your prick fall off?”

“It won’t go down otherwise!” Steve keens. “I dunno! It _could_ fall off!” He’s flustered, a little bit less seductive than before, but in a way that is even more appealing to the centaur.

“How long have you stayed hard?” Bucky lets go of Steve’s dick to bring his hand up to his mouth, tasting curiously. He’s almost surprised it tastes like he expects, rather than just tasting of wine.

The sight causes Steve to just wrap his own hand around himself, stroking fast. “Not very long,” he pants, eyeing Bucky. “Can’t—can’t help myself.” He’s less elegant like this, he knows, but he can also tell how the sight of his desperate, swollen prick is turning Bucky on. Bucky is trying to look at him with disapproval, but he can see the corners of his lips twisting into a smile and just how constantly Bucky’s back legs keep shifting, as though he’s trying to make room for a huge—

Steve’s hand flies away from himself, knowing he was going to come in an _instant_ if he thinks of that, and as much as he wants to get off, it could be so much _better_. His nostrils flare and he lets go of Bucky to slide away from him.

“What are you…?” Bucky trails off as Steve sidles along his body until he can slide a hand over Bucky’s flank.

“I want to touch you,” Steve breathes in the tone of voice that normally gets a partner to open like a flower to him. In this in stance it’s less of a flower and more of rolling hips to the side to expose the enormous centaur’s cock. Steve’s mouth waters. “Can I do that?”

Bucky has an unreadable expression on his face but simply nods, head falling to the side. It’s an awkward position for him to watch, but he knows he doesn’t necessarily need to see. He twists his torso enough that he can, since there is something special about this one.

Steve doesn’t seem to notice the dilemma as he lays on his side to make it easy to grab Bucky’s cock and rub shamelessly against it. Bucky groans, and Steve just gives in, shooting his load over Bucky’s hard flesh. He comes more this second time, making it easy to stroke Bucky’s cock with slippery, greedy hands. They’re writhing against each other, and a moment later Steve feels his world tilt. Bucky has tucked one of his legs under the satyr, allowing him enough momentum so that Bucky can roll onto his back and Steve is seated atop him in front of his back legs. The position is alien to Steve, but Bucky seems very comfortable, looking down at Steve with happy, but heavy-lidded eyes.

Steve has stopped touching himself, even though his cock is still standing up hard and needy. He seems utterly focused on pleasing the other man. It’s also clear he’s never touched a cock like this one, and he’s curious about the flat head, and the ridge half way up it. He looks like he’s going to rub up against it again when he instead drops his mouth to the head of it, tasting, moaning.

“Ff—uck.” Bucky’s struggling to keep a hold of himself, but the clever licks in combination with that sucking, that wet heat, has fiery tingles racing through him. “I ah… I need…”

Rather than pull away, Steve seems to crave it more, sucking harder and moving his hands over him faster. He’s humping forward now at the base of Bucky’s length, hips twitching impatiently into the undulating heat under him. Bucky just gasps, tossing his head back as his massive cock pulses with orgasm, filling Steve’s mouth and then spilling onto the floor. The satyr tries, really, but he can’t handle it all, and lets his mouth pop off as he continues to stroke it, feeling it writhe under his hands. He’s absolutely covered in cum, and slips forward onto Bucky’s belly. He ruts his cock into the wet, softening flesh of him, and finally cries out for the last time.

They’re an absolute mess. The rug that had been under them is certainly going to need a miracle to come out of this unstained, and the lantern has completely gone out. Steve’s furry legs rub luxuriously against Bucky’s body, and he sighs with a well-fucked contentment that is hard for a satyr to truly reach.

Bucky is finally able to reach Steve, and continues to slide him upwards until he’s holding him, their naked, sticky torsos pressing together. Bucky huffs, “No wonder I’ve never dealt with your kind. This is next level mess.”

“The spring,” Steve mumbles. “It’s close.”

“Perhaps we should go there,” Bucky suggests, the teasing tone back to his voice.

“And get _up_? Are you kidding?”

The centaur tries not to be smug. “Well, I’m not as worn out as you,” he jokes. “You could ride on my back.”

“Even though I’m _next level messy_?”

“We’re going to bathe directly afterwards, so…”

Steve considers this, and places a slow kiss on Bucky’s mouth. “What if we get into the spring…”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I get you all cleaned up,” Steve continues to peck kisses over Bucky’s face.

“Yes?”

“And then you get hard again?” Steve lightly headbutts Bucky, the nubs of horns poking at his head.

“Why do you think it’ll be me?” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “I was clearly under your spell the first time.”

“What, you only got hard after seeing me?”

Bucky tilts his head to the side, contemplating Steve with a small grin. He presses his lips close to Steve’s sensitive ear. “I watched that little dick grow so big and so ravenous in front of my eyes,” he purrs. “I would have to be dead to not follow suit.”

Steve shudders and for a brief moment he’s worried that’s going to happen again right now. But he’s exhausted, and it’s been five minutes, maybe ten. There’s no way. He needs at _least_ ten more minutes. After that it’s an easy choice to pull away from Bucky and allow him to stand to his full height. Gods, Steve is short, the top of his head coming up to Bucky’s nipples. He takes in a breathe and reaches for the dark mane that runs down the middle of Bucky’s back, pulling himself up onto the other. He barely gets a look at his coloring, so hazy is his mind. He needs to let it go, let himself be comfortable. It’s dark out, and no other soul cares one bit about what he’s doing with this centaur, and now it is time to continue to celebrate, gods willing.

It is the solstice, after all.


	2. Harvest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Months after the summer solstice, the satyrs harvest olives and celebrate as they do, while Steve misses what he'd had. Warning: some pretty explicit Steve/OMC in this, but it doesn't last too long.

Satyrs cannot live on joy alone.

Summer is fading into autumn but the heat remains as large gardens of crops swell with fruit. Steve rests on a thick olive branch, fingers deftly plucking olives into a canvas satchel at his hip. The others have large rakes they’ve fashioned out of sticks to shake the branches, picking up the waxy green treats, but Steve likes this approach. Here he can ensure every olive is perfect, as well as ignore his colleagues’ braying and swatting at each other. He can’t deny who he is, but he does get awfully tired of their antics.

“Quit clomping all over them!” one shouts, shoving another. “We just knocked these all down, what’re you doing?”

“The oil we’ll make will be so good!” the other calls back, laughing. “I want to celebrate!”

“We won’t make _shit_ if you keep _destroying them_, Tip! Get back here!” The sounds of a wrestling match commence as the less light-hearted one rushes forward, head-butting Tip in the chest to knock him down.

“Get—offa me, Sef! Play fair!” Tip pants angrily, and their tussle grows until the shouting melts into excited moans.

Steve rolls his eyes, blowing a bit of his blonde hair out of his face. Satyrs cannot live on joy alone, but gods help them, they’ll try. Hopefully they don’t ruin too much of the crop down there, but he’s glad for less shouting as he strips the branches. Occasionally he pops an olive past his lips, carefully pulling the flesh away from the pit with pointed tongue, and sighs happily at the robust flavor that fills his mouth.

Times like this, when he’s safe and alone, he allows himself to daydream. Olive picking is simple work, making it easy to think of midsummer, just a few short months prior. He is still convinced his episode with Bucky had been utterly imaginary. It was hard to think it hadn’t been a dream when they’d sauntered into the nearby spring, cleaning each other off with subdued voices. Bucky had asked Steve to take him back to his home, and Steve eagerly led him back to the mossy nest of rocks and trees where he spent his less excitable nights.

Then, Steve could only remember waking up alone, carefully tucked under a deerskin blanket, unsullied if a little hungover. He didn’t even see hoofprints in the area, though if he hadn’t seen his own, either, that was probably not a good indicator of whether someone had truly been there or not.

He could picture Bucky easily, towering above him, his horse half a creamy tan while his mane and long legs were dark brown, the same color as the hair on his head. Makes sense, Steve thinks, that Bucky would be _buck_skin. He thinks of the metal arm, the fingers on the strings of the lyre, the ice blue eyes, the muscles, the—

Steve sighs, pressing his thighs together. Maybe he shouldn’t be daydreaming like this if he wants to have a successful olive picking day instead of just frantically beating off until he can clear his mind. But thinking about that night is one of his guilty pleasures, and it’s only hurting himself. It might even be helpful, honestly; he’s been more full of vigor and energy, so it’s been easier to spend more time cavorting _and_ working. The muscles of his arms and back and chest have started to fill in the way they never had before. He’d always been relatively scrawny compared to the others, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. It was hard to keep up with their madness a lot of the time. And now, he didn’t want to participate in _their_ madness, he wanted the kind he’d found with the centaur. So as he seemed to be growing healthier, he had begun to grow more isolated.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and then forces himself to focus. He stuffs the satchel with olives until every new one falls out of it onto the ground below, and he’s forced to drop from the tree. He does so with the humorous grace of a goat.

He can see a small mess on the ground left behind by Tip and Sef, who are ten or so trees away rigorously shaking leaves, and he hopes that they chose to not pick up any olives from the place they’d had their fight. His own collection of olives he brings to his home, tucking it into a wooden chest, before returning to the orchard. He forces himself to join the other two, who gladly take his assistance in harvesting.

The sun is close to the horizon when they finish, stinking from the effort but happy with the outcome. Sef slaps a hand over Steve’s back. “Stevos,” Sef chuckles, “why don’t you help us more often?”

Steve rolls his eyes, carrying a large bag of olives on his back. The other two carry equally large bags. “I heard you two ‘harvesting’ without me,” he scoffs. “It’s easier for me to get work done without the extra _jubilations_.”

Sef flushes, but Tip lets out a huge braying laugh. “It’s just more motivation!” he shouts, waving a hand. “And it pleases Dionysus.”

“To tromp on his olives, and cover them with seed?” Steve replies with a raised eyebrow. “Doubtful.”

“Now there’s proof you’ve never met Him,” Tip says, touching the end of his long nose with a grin. “He’d love that shit.”

“Tip’s got a point,” Sef says, clearing his throat but still clearly grinning. “We’ve still got enough olives just from a day’s work to last ages. I’m sure we can spare a few for the sake of pleasing a god.”

“Think you were pleasing your_selves_,” Steve says.

“Which pleases Dionysus by proxy, Stevos!” Sef nods resolutely. “When was the last time you even went to a temple?”

“A while, simply because of what I found there. But point taken,” Steve mutters. It’s his turn to blush.

“We love you, but you’re awfully weird, for one of us,” Tip chuckles bluntly.

Steve adjusts the bag over his shoulder, suddenly remembering when _Bucky_ had casually remarked that Steve was unusual. The memory had made him feel warm and special, but now he just felt embarrassed for not being as raunchy as his brothers. “Who has the press?” Steve asks, changing the subject.

“Xeras,” Sef says. “I think she and some other fauns are pitting yesterday’s harvest.”

Steve nods, and then doesn’t say anything else. After a few moments of quiet, Tip and Sef start up a conversation, arguing and laughing with each other. Steve simply laughs along with them, but is contemplative.

Perhaps now that he had more energy to serve the gods, he should. He should be better at worshiping Dionysus and take part in more debauched ceremonies. But he should do more than that, too. When was the last time truly built something for Dionysus, or even Pan? And would Poseidon know if he, in particular, did not worship with gusto during the winter solstice? Perhaps Steve should change, and become the most devout partying satyr in the living world.

Even thinking about it exhausts him mentally.

They come up on a large tree, dead but carved up into a very nice home. Outside it, Xeras is crouched above two buckets and a bag. One bucket is full of pits, the other the tender flesh of olives, and the bag is nearing empty. Beside her are two more fauns — female satyrs — their long, fluffy hair full of small berries, lips and cheeks as rosy as wine.

“Don’t tell me that’s more,” one faun says, falling back on her elbows.

Xeras, with her own hair short and dark, smirks. “It’s fine, we can make some boys pit these tomorrow. You two and I will press these tomorrow at sunrise.” Xeras stands up and catches Steve’s eye. “For now, though, I think we’ve done enough.”

“Bonfire?” Tip asks.

A faun nods sharply. “Bonfire.”

“We’ll meet you,” Xeras says, and Steve blinks as she gazes at him. “I have business with Stevos.”

Tip elbows Steve in the side, waggling his eyebrows, before the four gallop off with a burst of laughter. Xeras folds her arms, yellow eyes growing gentle. “So.”

“So,” Steve says, tossing the bag he’d been holding on the ground with the others. He’s always liked Xeras, who often kept the satyr community _productive_, whether through work or actual reproduction. She wasn’t necessarily a leader, they didn’t have one, but she saw to it that barley and grapes got planted, that fertility rituals got carried out, that no one was met with discomfort, social or physical.

Xeras folds her black-furred arms over round, heavy breasts. “You’ve been scarce.”

Steve shrugs, but doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to defend himself.

“Normally we can see a satyr start to wilt as they tire of life’s bounties,” Xeras fills in for him. She watches him, eyes sliding up and down his form. “But as you’ve withdrawn from us, you seem to be… blossoming.”

This annoys Steve. He’s not _withdrawing_. He’s just been preoccupied. “How is my working all day with those loudmouths—” Xeras smiles at that, “—not collaborating? I’m hardly withdrawing.”

“You’ve gotten taller,” she remarks. “Wider.”

“I only look taller,” he insists. “I guess I have, ah, filled out a bit. It’s been a very good season! Ever since the beginning of summer, the air has been less sticky. It’s easier for me to breathe. It’s a blessed year.”

Xeras tips her head to the side. “Yes, Midsummer. I don’t even recall seeing you that night, and you are much more of a party animal when the stars come out.”

Steve tries very hard not to blush and fails. “I was there. I thought the centaur wine was so good, perhaps I’d talk to one.”

“Privately, I assume.”

He stammers. “P-perhaps.”

Finally, Xeras spreads her arms. “Whatever it was, it’s been both a blessing and a curse for you, I can see.”

“How is it a _curse_, Xeras, as I mentioned, I have been farming _plenty_. You’re going to press so much olive oil we’ll be able to fill the sea with it. What could possibly be bad?”

There’s a long pause, as though Xeras is asking him if she truly wants to be honest. He sticks his chin out. She shrugs. “When was the last time you had coitus?”

He stammers again, angrier this time. “I don’t see what _that—_”

“Everything, Stevos,” she says matter-of-factly. “You are a satyr. You’re driven to drink and rough house and fuck. And while your body grows more beautiful, you remain celibate? How is that _not_ a curse? You are not allowed to fulfill your duties to Dionysus?”

Steve’s jaw works. He had been thinking about that just earlier today. What if he pissed off the god by spending all his time daydreaming instead of acting? But he must have done something right if his body seems to be growing the way he had always hoped. He finally sighs. “It was at Midsummer.”

“So it was the centaur who cursed you, and blessed you,” she says thoughtfully.

“Bucky didn’t _curse me_! He didn’t even bless me! With anything other than his dick.”

Xeras bursts out laughing. “Faun and nymph flesh is not enough, mm? Only a centaur can tame your needs.”

“I’m sure anybody could tame my—my needs,” Steve mutters. “I just haven’t really…”

“I think you should worship at a temple,” Xeras says softly. “Confront Him and find out why you’ve been tasked with this wondrous suffering. I think it will be good for your mind. And mine, too.” Her entire face grows sweeter. “I worry about you. Care for you.”

Steve bites his lip, thinking. His eyes move over Xeras, and his expression changes. “If you care for me, maybe you’d… help me worship?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “Tonight?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Does my body even please you?”

He nods. He’s been distracted, he’s not _dead_.

“Not tonight,” she says. “But I will go to the temple with you. If only to ensure you go.” It’s not an outright rejection, but it feels like it. “I promised the girls I’d give them my hands tonight,” she clarifies. “And that’s all I’ve been able to think about, to be honest.”

Steve is definitely not dead. His cock begins to twitch. “Oh.”

“You see! It’s your nature,” she laughs. She then grabs him by the arm. “Come with us to the bonfire anyway. Wouldn’t you like to see us when I do?”

He nods again, and the two of them trot off in the direction the others had.

* * *

The bonfire feels like a neighborhood get-together. Just one tall fire is being fed with long dried logs and shrubs, a ring of rocks keeping it from spreading out of control. There’s a particularly large tree stump smoothed down with wear that’s got trays of salted meats, dark rolls, trays of tart little grapes, and a large bucket of wine with a ladle hanging off the side. Two little cones of black incense smoke away, adding a sensual mist to the air. A particularly merry group of nymphs and one nereid sit near the fire, banging a drum, whistling on an aulos, strumming a kithara, and singing harmonies above it all. No mankind this evening, only creatures, a spontaneous, normal affair rather than one reaching far and wide to the dusty human villages nearby.

Steve spots his troupe dancing together, arms wound around in spirals as they twirled each other about. The night is roaring to life, night insects adding a white noise to back the vocalists at the fire. The moon is half there, giving a chance for the stars to shine brighter in twinkling clusters of white and yellow and red. The music stops all at once, before the nereid ululates and the next song is intense, the drums coming out fast and hard. The satyrs stamp harder laughing, and Xeras drags Steve to them. Another from their group has joined them, the tall and thin Farin, whose wide mouth full of big white teeth is stretched into an ecstatic grin.

“Xeras! Steeeve!” Farin calls, unwrapping one arm from Sef to beckon them into the circle.

As they dance together in growing intensity, Steve feels his nature taking over. It feels _good_. It’s nice to turn off that constantly twisting brain and let his heart stampede over any unbecoming feelings. The sweat and incense smell feels familiar, holy, and this feels like the temple. The song comes to abrupt waterfall of sound, twisting into a less intense rhythm, and Steve’s arms go straight into the air. Xeras and the fauns have broken away, and behind Steve, Farin slides his arms around his torso.

“It’s good to see you,” Farin says, bending down and nuzzling into the crevice of Steve’s neck and shoulder. Steve shivers, feeling Farin’s prick poking him insistently in the back. A similar reaction has already happened to Steve, but he’d been so deep into the dancing he didn’t notice.

He laughs out a breath, allowing himself to lean back into the tall blonde’s touch. “I’ve been _around_,” Steve says. “Why do none of you think I’m never around? Unless we’re worshiping.”

“Are any of us even _alive_ during the day?” Farin teases, hands sliding up to Steve’s chest. He’s broadened out certainly since the last time someone touched him, and Steve finds himself flushing pink as he feels Farin grope him like a faun.

“Worshiping isn’t the only way to live,” Steve breathes, and allows himself to rub back against Farin, cock filling to almost its full size. “But it is pretty good.”

“Come,” Farin says, pulling away but grabbing Steve’s hand before he could lose contact. Steve gets pulled away from the fire into one of the blankets sprawled out. Farin slips a vial into Steve’s hand before he moves down to his hands and knees, stretching his hands out in front of him. Steve’s mouth waters as he falls behind him. He uncurls his hand around the vial. Olive oil.

Steve wants to make some smart comment, but he hasn’t touched another since midsummer, and it has unfortunately been longer still since he’d really laid into someone. He pops the cork and slicks his fingers as he leans down to prep Farin. Farin is normally loud, a singer and lyrist, but like this he’s quiet, huffing needy sounds into his shoulder fluff and the blanket below. Steve can hear the man hissing out his name, drawn out and possessive. He can’t take it, using a bit more oil on himself before grabs Farin’s tail at the base and slides himself in.

The first orgasm is almost immediate, and it only leads him to slamming faster and harder into the other. He can see Farin’s own arm moving rapidly, and Steve’s glad that he can just focus on himself, on how _good_ it feels, how wet and warm. He imagines the tail is bigger in his grasp, the warmth hotter, wider, sloppier. He feels like there’s a shimmering energy in his chest, imagination bubbling up so much that when he looks down, he almost convinces himself that’s a different set of haunches in front of him. He bends over _not-Bucky_, reaching down to grab the scruff at the back of his neck as he loses himself to it. Gods, it would be so good.

He opens his eyes, allowing himself to scan around the area. Xeras is nearby with four fingers in one woman while another had her face buried between Xeras’s legs. The sight causes the sharper satyr libido to shoot through him, more than that shivery, sparkling feeling he gets imagining the centaur.

“Do it again,” Farin pants, wanting Steve to come again. His eyes roll back, slowing down instead. He’s writhing, hips shifting back and forth with soft chuckles. Farin is impatient and shoves his hips back against him, fucking himself on Steve’s solid length.

No need to hurry, he supposes, and looks around again. This time, he knows he’s gone absolutely mad, because there, speaking to the nereid he’d heard earlier, _he_ is.

“Bucky,” he breathes, suddenly embarrassed that he’s—where he is. He’s not _sorry_ per se, this is what he’s meant to do, but he’d waited all this time, for—for what?

It’s as though the centaur has some kind of super hearing, because the second his name leaves his lips, Bucky’s eyes rise over the Nereid’s head and lock onto Steve’s. He’s suddenly afraid he’s going to come again. He’s panicking as he watches Bucky put gloved hands on the nereid’s shoulder, embracing her, and then explaining something as he walks away. Walks _towards_. Oh _no_.

“Hail, friend Satyr,” Bucky says, walking up with measured steps. He’s dressed this evening in a black vest full of straps that show off his arms, but cover him from jaw to stomach. His hair is braided back, and there are gloves and gauntlets on his hands and arms. “Are you terribly busy, Steve?” Bucky’s sarcastic grin is positively _irritating_. Steve wants to kiss it off of him.

“What—is—?” Farin mumbles, glancing back, and then double taking. “Stevos!?”

“Uh, not _terribly_,” Steve says, and he’s still undulating, but very aware that he suddenly has no desire to _finish_ worshiping, not this way. He pulls out and his cock is so hard it hits his belly with a wet slap. Farin whines at him and Steve slaps him on the ass. “Go to Sef!” he says. “I’m sure you can fit between the two of them.”

Farin just rolls his eyes, but there’s no hard feelings there (other than the cock feelings). It’s not unusual to trade about like this, anyway.

Bucky actually laughs as Steve leaps up to his hoofs. “I didn’t mean to prevent you from, ah…”

“Worship should last all night,” Steve says with a shrug. He wants to make a smart comment about ‘shouldn’t be forgotten because of wine and song’, but he’s completely smitten at this _dressed_ centaur who just _happens_ to be in their woods, and who happens _to be real_. He’s suddenly aware of how much he’d like to wash himself off.

“Worshiping, are you?” Bucky murmurs, one eyebrow drawing up. It’s Steve’s turn to whine. How can this creature have such an effect on him?

“How else do you celebrate Him?” Steve asks. His cock twitches, a slip of pre-cum dripping out of him. The fur along his shoulders shivers as he tries to calm down. He _can’t_, exactly, since it’s the satyr way. What goes up cannot come down, at least until he’d been thoroughly drained. His eyes fall on Bucky’s hands, that arm, those gloves, and whole heart starts to thrum as he imagines those fingers milking him dry.

“You think I spend time worshiping Dionysus?”

“With the way you sing, you must,” Steve says. He steps up to Bucky. He _has_ grown taller, his eye level at Bucky’s collar this time. He had never noticed.

Bucky is appraising him with his gaze, he can tell. It makes his balls feel tight and heavy at the same time. “You’ve gotten bigger. Still skinny, but less of a waif.”

“You think I had a waifish cock?” Steve smirks.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle at the sides. “Such a prick you are,” he teases. The metal hand wrapped in leather settles on Steve’s cheek.

Steve wants to be smart, again, but his eyebrows draw up at the center instead at the warmth. “Where have you been?” he breathes.

“Wandering,” Bucky shrugs. “Though why do I feel as though I have been _here_, all along?” His other hand comes up to tap at Steve’s temple. “Mm?”

Oh, _no_, that lamb’s ear feeling is back. What is it about this damn centaur? He nods rapidly. “Every day I thought of you,” he whispers. “Whether I meant to or not.”

“Odd, you know nothing about me,” Bucky hums.

Steve is as mad as a snake. “I know _you_ made me this way! Don’t be so—rude!” He pokes a finger at Bucky’s chest, angry at the leather covering it, too.

Bucky’s face softens. “Oh,” he murmurs apologetically, and pulls the writhing, angry satyr to his chest and crushes him in a hug. Steve’s hips twitch backwards, feeling awkward about rubbing on the other now, even if he’s annoyed. Unfortunately he can’t say anything, as Bucky’s pressed his face completely against him. Which is _amazing_, to be honest, and Steve deeply inhales that scent as his arms slide around Bucky’s back. “I should not have sung to you,” he says. “But I saw you, and wanted you.”

Steve attempts to pull his head back; Bucky is pliant and lets him move away with ease. Steve frowns deeply. “So you admit you bewitched me,” he says.

“Not on _purpose_. I can sing normally just fine. But sometimes, when you see something you want to worship…” Bucky’s lips tilt in a small smile. “Can you control the feelings that flow through you when you dance with the others?”

“That’s different, surely,” Steve mutters. “I don’t think I’ve danced a sick boy into a healthy one.”

“Nor have I. At least, not until now.” Bucky bites his lip. “Did you prefer it? Maybe I can—”

“No,” Steve says. “It’s unusual to not feel like _myself_, but… I do feel better. I’ve been able to do a lot more. It’s been nice to…grow.”

Bucky closes his eyes, hand sliding from Steve’s cheek to the back of his head. “May I kiss you?” he hums. Steve tips his head up and kisses him in response, allowing his body to press forward, now. He’s suddenly aware they are still at the celebration, and he doesn’t want his nosey troupe to see this and harass him about it later. He glances around, in the light it’s hard to see much of anything this far from the fire. Bucky gazes down at him. “Come with me. There’s a place I’d like to show you.”

“Is it far?” Steve mumbles. Now that his cock’s pressed against warmth, it’s harder to want to find privacy.

“Are you asking for a ride, again?” Bucky asks suspiciously.

“No! Yes. No!” Steve says, pulling back. “Just lead the way, jerk.”

“Spunky,” Bucky chuckles, and leads him into a more tree-dense part of the woods. There’s a particularly squat tree with a large low hanging branch and a trickle of a stream. The sounds of the others fade into a pleasant buzz. Steve trots towards the stream to rinse himself off, wanting to be clean of the scent of anyone else. The water is frigid, making his balls tighten uncomfortably, but his dick stays hard as a rock. He turns back around to see Bucky pulling his vest off, dropping his gauntlets and gloves on the mossy earth. He licks his lips.

“What did you want to show me?” Steve asks, walking up to the centaur and touching those _pecs_. A rough purr comes out of his chest. Just touching him sends aroused sparks down his fingertips.

“The tree,” Bucky says, and swoops down to pick up Steve behind the thighs. The satyr yelps, but doesn’t struggle as Bucky places him on the fat low hanging branch. It is at the perfect height where, in this position, Bucky’s mouth is in the perfect position to kiss Steve on the tip of his cock, so he does.

Steve lets out a shivery laugh. “How convenient,” he whispers, watching as Bucky’s eyes, previously glued to Steve’s, slowly move down his chest and stare deeply at the length of him.

“I thought of you too. Frequently,” Bucky croaks out. “When I was out hunting and saw this branch, this was the first thing that came to mind.” His lips wrap around the head of Steve’s now clean cock and sucks softly.

“You’ve—! You’ve _been here_?” Steve hisses, eyes shutting at the intensely pleasurable feeling of Bucky’s lips on him. His eyes whip open again when he realizes it’s even better to watch him do it. “You’ve been in my woods, and haven’t come—ahhh. Come to see me?”

Bucky doesn’t feel obligated to answer, as he slides down Steve’s absurdly big cock. But Steve is surprised to see he has no trouble swallowing him down. Bucky’s throat moves as he swallows around him, and Steve gasps for air. Bucky pulls all the way off, a line of drool coming out of the corner of his mouth. “It is… complicated,” he breathes, and then starts to suck Steve down earnestly.

Steve’s thighs widen and Bucky tucks himself up close to them, his arms coming up around the back of the branch to rest on those thighs. The sight of this giant loving him so expertly is, as Bucky had mentioned, _next level_. He’s ascended to some godly plane, where beautiful men exist to suck his cock. This time, he feels crystal clarity, the gauzy feeling in his mind now sharpened to two points: the feeling of lips and tongue, and the sight of it all.

“Do you like it?” Steve asks, and pets Bucky’s hair. Bucky’s eyes flicker up to his, luminous, and Steve trembles at the sight. “Do you like my cock inside you?”

He had almost meant it as a joke, but he _swears_ that a sound that was awfully whinny-like tumbling out of the centaur. Bucky sucks him to the base, swallowing hard, and Steve can’t just disappoint him. The orgasm hits him hard, a wave of hot coiling pleasure from his knees shooting straight up and out of him down Bucky’s throat. He watches Bucky’s adam’s apple bob with every pulse of cum. Bucky buzzes out a hum as he finally slides off of Steve’s cock. They’re both dripping, Bucky’s mouth a mess even as he’s still reflexively swallowing. Steve’s still hard, prick swollen even more. He’s as hard as he’s ever been. Moreso. He might die tonight. Now _that_ is a worthy sacrifice to Dionysus.

“Do you want to be inside me, Steve?” Bucky asks, and how his voice doesn’t sound positively destroyed is magic within itself.

Steve’s hips hump forward of their own accord at his words. He jerks himself back, embarrassed. “I could, I s’pose, if you really wanted it,” Steve demurrs.

“So you don’t?” Bucky teases.

Steve’s mischievous expression falls away. “I thought only of you earlier,” he chokes. “I’d—I’d like that very much.” He’s red faced, red chested, and unable to lie to save his life.

“Come down here, then,” Bucky says. Steve hops to the ground like he had from the olive tree earlier that day and presses himself to Bucky. The centaur pushes him away a bit, grinning as he turns around and settles onto the ground, folding his legs to the side.

Steve watches that centaur prick the entire way down, swallowing, and just reminds himself: next time. There will definitely be a next time. There’s _gotta_ be, complications or not. Bucky hands him a crude locket, which has a slippery salve inside it. “Wouldn’t want to not allow you to finish your worship,” he murmurs, shifting his tail to the side.

Steve sniffs the salve, and it’s a robust floral smell. He fingers a bit and smears it over his cock, finding it quite slick indeed as he falls behind Bucky’s flanks the way he’d imagined earlier. His left hand finds the base of his black tail coming out of that golden brown fur, and then slides two fingers inside the dark pucker directly under. Bucky sighs happily, which encourages Steve to slide in three fingers. His cock throbs with want. “Can I?” he asks, struck by a strong desire to know the answer.

“Yeah,” Bucky pants, his ass raising just a bit eagerly.

Steve’s fingers pull away, wrapping around himself to watch the head slowly slide into Bucky. He’s so hot around him, and he’s surprised when he feels the other clench around him. It’s tight. His cock swells. “Bu-ckyyyy,” he hisses, pushing forward inch by inch until there’s nothing separating them. His hand tightens on Bucky’s tail, pulling it up. Bucky’s ass moves up further against him. “Gods, you’re…” He pulls backwards, just half way, before slamming back in. The movement feels so good he’s inclined to do it again, deeper, and then again, deeper still. After a full agonizing minute of watching himself fuck into Bucky, tip to base, he starts to move fast. He leans forward, other hand coming up to grasp at Bucky’s ass as he hammers forward.

Bucky’s turned back to watch him, biting his lip and touching his own nipples. It’s beautiful and horny at the same time for Steve. Some _curse_, _Xeras_, you _liar_. She couldn’t possibly know what this was like. Utterly worth waiting for. Besides the amazing tight feeling as he fucks back and forth, his own heart is thrumming with that sparkling warmth. It’s not his nature coming out, it’s definitely his feelings. It’s good, _so_ good. “Please let me,” Steve gasps, and he’s fucking Bucky so hard the sounds are _obscene_.

“Come inside,” Bucky croons, not taking his eyes off him. 

He does, though he barely registers anything other than one long, pulsating shiver of bliss. His fingers are scraping for purchase, he’s hunched over, his eyes are squeezed shut. He feels ascendant and close to death all at once. When Steve pulls out, the amount of cum that slides out is positively obscene. His cock gives one last interested twitch before decidedly going limp.

He squeezes his eyes tight and then opens them to see Bucky eyeing him with a slight flush across his face, smiling almost tenderly at him. His heart is the one to give an interested twitch now. Oh, _no_.

“Can I — take care of you?” Steve asks, scrambling forward to Bucky’s side, but the centaur shakes his head.

“I ah,” Bucky stammers, and then shifts slightly. “I had been more eager for you than I’d thought.”

Steve glances down to see that it’s clear Bucky had just rubbed against the ground and left a mess. His own face goes deeply red. “Serves you right,” he says despite the blush. “You could have come to see me much earlier.”

Bucky looks away then, smile a bit more far-off now. “Yes, I should like to see you again, sooner, hopefully.”

Steve settles down in front of Bucky’s chest, allowing the centaur to wrap his arms around him. “Hopefully?” Steve mutters. “Seems like there’s nothing stopping you, if all you were doing was _wandering_.”

“As I said,” Bucky murmurs, pressing his nose in to Steve’s soft blonde hair. “Complicated.”

They don’t move, and in fact fall asleep like this, cradling one another. When Steve wakes up, he’s not surprised, but still unhappy to find that he’s alone.

Bucky has left the salve-filled cameo tucked into his hand. He presses it to his chest.

Now he’s sure he doesn’t want to go to the temple.


End file.
